Lukewarm Water & Crisscross Scars
by Saphron
Summary: Some of you know what I'm talking about...for those who don't, lukewarm water is used to kill yourself. Crisscross scars refer to the signs any cutter (someone who cuts themselves intentionally) would wear. Very DDA-dark, depressing, angst. I advise reade


Crisscross Scars  **__**

Lukewarm Water & Crisscross Scars

By Saphron

NOTE: Very DDA-Dark, depressing, angst. Heavy material, hence the R-rating. References to cutting (people who cut themselves intentionally) and suicide. I advise you now-read with caution, and only if you can handle it.

My first Hp fanfic, takes place Book III.

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The sound of dripping blood hitting the marble flooring echoed through the large empty hall, the sound reverberating like a lost call, coming back to haunt the crier. Slowly the drops fell and scattered; making tiny puddles wherever the frantic feet stepped. Hermione clutched her wrist, where blood was oozing profusely from four tiny slits, as panic swelled inside her.

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I cut to deep…I cut too deep! I only meant to make a shallow scratch, just a normal cut…b-but I think I've cut too deep!

She didn't know why or how she had ended up in the great hall, but only that she was there, with her bleeding wrists and tormented soul. But something had compelled her to come here…something some might call fate, or intuition, or just plain insanity. And now she was on the floor weeping…ages of dementia and angst flowing out of her like a weeping river, the pain surging together, mixing with her tears and blood, pooling on the floor surrounding her. The sticky red liquid was warm from her body heat, and as she felt it soak through her thin nightgown she new all was lost.

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I cut too deep; I cut too deep! I'll bleed to death…I'll be dead by morning, oh why did I have to cut so deep?

It was all _their_ faults, she thought venomously, scenes from previous times with them flashing through her head in brief spurts of memory. It was unfair, so unfair! They held her in contempt for every little thing…be it an A on a pop-quiz or knowing the right answer to a question. 'Teacher's pet' they didn't even have the curtsey to snicker behind her back, oh no, right to her face, 'goody-two-shoes, smart-Alec, know-it-all,' she'd heard it all. But she thought she could live with them, deal with the insults, and not let it get to her. That's what they wanted right? For her to crack and crumble and cry hysterically at their feet. How could they be so cruel?

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What's so wrong with being smart?

Their constant attempts to thwart her, their endless mockery, had driven her to desperation. She had no one to turn to in these times of trouble, her parents? Hardly. Both stiffs who cared more about their dentist jobs than they did their daughter, who, might it be said, was "perfect" enough that her parents had long-ceased worrying about her well-being mentally. Her friends? No…they just wouldn't understand. Kind Hagrid had tried, but he was always so cheery and happy, Hermione could hardly bare to tell him that she was a cutter, he'd just blink and sob and most likely blame himself. Harry and Ron? They weren't even speaking to her for some dumb reason. Sirrius Black _could_ have very well sent Harry a cursed broomstick…she was just looking out for his well being…but did he realize that? No. He cared more about some piece of inanimate wood and flashy red and gold paint then he did about one of his alleged 'best' friends…

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Best-what did that word mean? She was always being told she was the 'best' at everything…but no one seemed to realize that she had her limits too. Did people actually think she _enjoyed_ holing up in her room to spend all hours of the night studying? When she could be out being a _normal_ kid…? That's all she wanted really, just to be normal. Be happy, like every other teen, didn't have to be popular or anything, but it'd be nice to be liked for a change…

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Why does everyone hate me? She wondered numbly, the effects of the cutting already starting to take action. First came overwhelming panic and hysteria, delusion setting in and masking up the true pain with a blinding light. Then came the transition into depression; falling into an endless bottomless void of emptiness. Nothingness everywhere. It was beautiful. The mental pain lifted up and away, to be replaced by shear vacuity. She'd concentrate all her energy on the single sharp stab of pain in her wrists, forgetting about her messed up life. Nothing mattered then; not stinging words nor crushed feelings, only the blissful ecstatic pain, leaving her in a state of mental shock and pure blessed blankness.

She picked herself off the cold stone floor, groping along in the semi-darkness of the moonlight shadows dancing on the walls from the tall foreboding windows, and stared wide-eyed ahead. The pale luminescence shone eerily on her wrists, where the crisscross scars glowed supernaturally. Maybe it was a good thing she had cut too deep…everyone would be happy if she never woke up again…

But the death was coming too slowly. She could feel its icy fingers groping for her soul, the blackness entering and lingering, tentatively stroking her damaged spirit with palms of cold cruel death. She did not resist; she was tired of fighting the inevitable. It was bound to happen, she was destined to die.

She slowly made her way out the Great Hall and towards Gryffindor tower, walking barefoot along the drafty castle corridors. Ghostly silhouettes hid behind every shadow, whispering in her ear that the end was near…embrace it, welcome it…the lights flickered on and off from wall torches, casting shadows of fire, that circled her heart and raged a war within.

She reached the portrait of the fat lady, and quietly whispered the password, "Seppuku," and entered. She made her way across the room padding soft-soled, ignoring the happy people who laughed and enjoyed life, dimly envying them, and winced at the imagined animosity directed in her direction.

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They all hate me…her paranoid mind screamed shrilly in her head.

The girl's staircase loomed in front of her as she climbed, and she had a vague sense that this would be the last time she'd climb up it. The bathroom door opened as she turned the brass knob, and from her secret spot she withdrew her long-time friend and ally, the razor.

She slowly turned the blade over in her hand, glancing at it from every angle and observing the smooth handle stained crimson in color, from where her blood had dripped down and soiled it. The steel was gleaming evilly, ghost shadows dancing on the edge of the silver, black souls daring her to slash away, draw the blood, feel the power, escape, escape, escape!

A new scar was added to the crisscross pattern on her wrist, as the ghosts whispered…_deeper…deeper…end the pain, end it all…deeper…_

And she listened. Silent as the dead of night she pushed down, first cautiously but then, the rage taking control of her, more lethally. And the blood dripped down to soak her already bloodstained feet, and her hand suddenly started to shake madly, the knife missing its mark and slicing randomly, the pain completely unbearable. With a final burst of angst she gashed her mutilated arm and plunged it under the sink, turning on the faucet.

The lukewarm water washed over the cuts, swelling them and sending her into a surreal state of bliss… With a last attempt at saving herself she chucked the razor at the mirror in front of her, the glass shattering and covering her body, as she slowly slipped in the pool of blood at her feet, her head hitting the counter, knocking her into unconsciousness…never to awake again… And the lukewarm water dribbled from the sink, and mixed with her blood, and danced over the crisscross scars and the spark of life extinguished…and Hermione was no more.

~

~*Saphron*~

Ah, well, that was my morbid depressing little angsty ficy for the night. -_-'

For those who didn't know, Seppuku is the Japanese equivalent to suicide. And y'need warm water to kill yourself, that is, if you're doing it the old-fashioned slit your wrists way. *Sighs* the last scene is my perfect death…

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JK Rowling and her affiliated publishers, all I own is some depression and a razor.


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